


The Civilian

by vampireisthenewblack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Canon Universe, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, No Season 3 Spoilers, Outdoor Sex, Pixies, Porn With Plot, Post Season 2, Potentially OOC, Prostitution, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Stiles has been living a double life, Wall Sex, a wee Alpha dominance thing, but probably isn't because I'm totally fine with it and I'm BDSMphobic, hustler!Stiles, that might seem a bit D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles started hustling by accident. He likes the way it makes him feel too much to stop. Even the risk involved with selling himself in dark, dirty alleys doesn't stop him from doing it again and again. Not every night, sometimes not even every week, but he always goes back, looking for more of what he needs.</p><p>When Derek finds him there, Stiles clings to the hope that maybe they can find what they both crave, in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story began on another account, one I use for the beginnings of stories I don't want to stress about finishing or disappoint anyone over a lack of updates. 
> 
> The first two chapters posted early in the year, and then sat all but abandoned for four months. Then I got inspired again, and now that it's complete, I've moved it over. 
> 
> It's very much been a no-stress, vomit-it-out-and-post kind of story, so please excuse my lack of beta. If you do see any horrible misuse of grammar, UK spelling or turn-of-phrase, feel free to point it out. I'm not precious if you're polite :) 
> 
> My other account isn't a big secret and it's not hard to figure out now that this has been transferred. I don't advertise it because there's a possibility anything posted there won't ever be completed, and I don't like to disappoint people.

Stiles takes one long, last drag on his cigarette before he grinds it beneath the sole of his shoe. Someone walks along the pavement, slows down before he carries on but Stiles doesn't get a good look at his face.

He moves like he's young, though. Stiles doesn't go for the old ones, he's turned a couple away already tonight, and they thought he was crazy but they don't understand that he's not here for the money.

The guy comes back to the mouth of Stiles' alley. Stiles keeps his head down, profile in the darkness, because Beacon Hills is a small town. It could be anyone approaching him and what he's doing is risky in so many different ways, and he knows he shouldn't be doing it at all but he has to.

Even while he affects a relaxed lean against the damp brick wall, his feet are planted firm, his muscles poised for flight if it becomes necessary.

Half way between the street and the spot Stiles is standing, the man stops. Stiles watches from the corner of his eye. He lets his gaze slide up from the boots, all the way up to the mans face, still hidden in the dark, and there's something weirdly familiar about the posture, the hair silhouetted against the street lights, but Stiles is living a double life and that person doesn't belong here, there's no way _he_ is the one approaching Stiles in an alley in the space between two streets in the industrial area of Beacon Hills that serves as a poor excuse for a gay district.

There's a red glint in the eyes of the man staring down at him and it's only then that Stiles believes, unfreezes, tries to run in the other direction. Derek's too quick though. He would have smelled Stiles as soon as he entered the alley, and there's no question that Derek knows it's him, and Stiles hits the wall, face first, cheek pressed against rough brick, breath squeezed out of him so hard and fast that he can't make any sound but a mangled groan.

"What are you doing here, Stiles?" Derek growls in his ear.

Stiles moans, tries to shove back, but it's pointless. The elbow he jerks back into Derek's stomach that would wind a normal man does nothing but make Derek shove him harder into the wall, pulling Stiles' arm up his back until it burns, his hard hip pressed into Stiles' ass.

Stiles gets hard, because despite his carefully separated lives coming together because of this, _this_ is exactly what he needs, why he comes down here. "Do it," he hisses. "Fuck me."

Derek's grip loosens and he jerks away, stepping back.

Stiles turns around, slow, head bent, eyes looking up because he's a different person down here, he's a different person in this alley from the Stiles Derek knows and it's easier this way. "First time?" He tries hard not to sound smug, superior, it's only months he's been doing this himself, but already he can tell when the guys are new and Derek's acting like he's never done this before. "Don't worry about it." He pulls the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lights one up, blows the smoke down and to his right. "Want me to suck you off? Or do you wanna fuck me?"

Derek's gasp is a sound Stiles has never heard from him before. "I'm not paying you for sex, Stiles. Jesus."

Stiles lifts his eyes to Derek's face. "I'll do you for free." He takes another puff on his cigarette, tosses it to the ground and follows the glow of the ember with his eyes as he pops the button of his jeans. He turns around, faces the wall, lets his jeans slide down to expose the top of his ass.

He feels Derek come up behind him even though Derek doesn't make a sound. Warm breath ghosts over his shoulder, raises the hair on his arms. Derek's hands come down on his hips, ghosting over his bared skin.

Stiles pants, his cock leaks and he shifts his hips, pushing back into Derek's hands.

Derek twitches. "We're not doing this." He grabs the waist of Stiles' jeans, yanks them up before pushing away and stepping back. "You need to go home now."

Stiles sighs and slumps against the wall. "You go home. I can't leave yet." He turns around, buttons his jeans over his aching cock.

Derek grabs Stiles by the arm, tries to drag him away. "Do you need money, Stiles? What the hell do you need so bad that you do _this_ for it?"

Stiles tries to shake him off and fails. "I don't do it for the money, but I need to do it this way and I don't expect you to understand. I don't expect any of them to understand, so I'll do anything if you just keep it to yourself, okay?" He reaches down, slides his hand over the front of Derek's jeans.

Derek's hard.

Stiles smiles and wraps his fingers around Derek's denim-encased cock, sinks to his knees. "Do that for me," he whispers, his lips dragging over the length of Derek's dick, "and you can do anything. Use me however you want."

Derek's frozen, his fingers still wrapped around Stiles' upper arm. They dig tighter, then release as he tries to step back. "I won't say anything. Stiles. Fuck. Please get up."

Stiles shakes his head, holds tight to Derek's hips so he can't get away without dragging Stiles through the filth on the floor of the alley. "You don't understand, Derek. I need this. I can't go home, I can't sleep without it." He's getting desperate, it's already late and three men have paused at the mouth of the alley and passed it by since Derek's been down here. The bars are closing and if Derek leaves Stiles will have missed out.

Derek pauses. His hands cover Stiles', gently pry his fingers away. But when he speaks, his voice is harsh, a growl. "Stand up and face the wall."

Stiles hesitates.

"Now," Derek snaps. "Or do you want your father to find out you're a whore?"

Stiles scrambles to his feet, fumbling with his button and fly, shoves his jeans and underwear down to expose his ass as he faces the wall. There's a condom and a tiny foil packet of lube in his pocket, and he fishes them both out, passes them back to Derek. From the corner of his eye he sees the foil square flutter to the ground. "I'm not wearing a condom for you," Derek hisses into his ear.

Stiles stiffens, it's the one thing he's never caved on, though he's had men walk away from him for it before.

"You think I want to stick my dick inside you?" Derek growls. "You're a street whore who lets dirty old men fuck you. I'm not going there." There's a ripping sound though, the squelch of lube, the slick sound of it smeared along Derek's cock with his hand. He shoves Stiles between the shoulder blades, pushes his jeans down further, slides his cock into the apex of Stiles' thighs. "Keep your legs together," he hisses. "Make it good or I'm telling your father first."

"Okay," Stiles pants, pressing his thighs together as hard as he can. No one's done this to him before, they've always just fucked his mouth or his ass. He never would have thought of this, it would have never occured to him and if it had he would have thought it wouldn't have been enough, but it is. He's as hard as he's ever been, his cock is dripping precome, and the head of Derek's cock pressing, rubbing, thrusting against his perenium makes his balls draw up fast.

Stiles digs his fingernails into the crumbling mortar between the bricks and comes harder than he ever has before.

"Fuck," Derek spits as he pushes his cock through the tight space between Stiles' quivering thighs. "Did you just come?" His voice is incredulous, then darkens as he speaks again. "You get off on doing this? On letting strangers fuck you for money?" His thrusts become erratic, hips jerking out of time, and then he stills, fingers digging into Stiles' hipbones.

There's a hot flood of wetness between Stiles' thighs, painting his balls, squishing everywhere. Derek jerks back, Stiles can hear his heavy breaths as he zips his jeans up.

Stiles turns and looks behind him. Derek averts his eyes, shoves his hand in his pocket, he pulls it out, there's a fluttering of paper.

Stiles ignores the notes that scatter over the ground. "Thanks," he whispers.

Derek says nothing as he turns and walks away.

Stiles yanks his jeans up over his ass. His briefs are wet, soaked with Derek's come, and it's cooling fast, but Stiles smiles. He feels dirty, used, and it's perfect. He scoops the handful of tens off the ground as he leaves the alley.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a text message saved on Stiles' phone that reads: **Before you do that again, talk to me.**

It's from Derek, and it's been there since that night two weeks ago. Stiles hasn't seen Derek since, and he's been carrying a folded wad of cash in his pocket in case he does.

The money never mattered. Stiles didn't need it, not really, even though it paid for the repairs the Jeep needed a few months back, paid for gifts he bought for Lydia and never gave her.

He's getting the urge again, though, so he sends a reply to Derek's text.

**I need to go out again. Tonight.**

It took him all of Chem class to word it right. To make sure Derek understands. And Stiles has no idea what Derek's going to do, if he's going to try to make Stiles stop, or if he wants to use Stiles himself.

Stiles hopes it's the latter. He can admit to himself that it would be easier, and a hell of a lot less risky to have someone he can go to for what he needs.

A text comes back in only minutes. Derek sends him the name of a no-tell motel on the outskirts of town, a room number, and a time.

~oOo~

The curtain twitches as Stiles parks the Jeep outside the room. He's early, just a few minutes, but Derek's car is parked right outside, so he gets out and knocks on the door, heart hammering in his chest.

It swings open. Derek has his phone pressed to his ear, and he looks Stiles up and down before he walks away. "Make sure he stays in the house," Derek says into the phone and Stiles remembers. It's a full moon tonight. Derek should be with Jackson, who's still having trouble controlling himself. He must have left Isaac to watch over him. Stiles feels a pang of guilt.

Derek, still on the phone, turns back to Stiles. He holds an envelope out, and Stiles takes it automatically. Derek's turned his back again before Stiles realizes what's inside.

"I don't want—" he begins.

Derek stops him with a jerk of his head and a glare. "Isaac, I have to go. I'll be there in a couple hours." He puts the phone down.

"I don't need your money," Stiles says, holding out the envelope while he fishes in his pocket for the roll of tens from last time.

Derek just stares at the money in Stiles' hands. Lifts his eyes slowly. "You're not the only one who needs something, Stiles." He turns away. "Take the money. I don't care what you do with it. I need this to be fair. I need to pay for what I take from you. If that still gives you what you need then you've got nothing to complain about." He turns around. "Take off your clothes."

Stiles stares at him. He's never been completely naked with another person before. He's had sex, proper sex, with maybe seven different guys, and none of them saw anything more than his bare ass. He's no blushing virgin, that's for sure, but completely naked? With Derek?

There's a softening around Derek's eyes. He takes a few steps toward Stiles, then hesitates. "You can leave," he says. "I won't say anything, we can forget this ever happened."

"No." Stiles shakes his head. He'd have to go back to his alley, back to the streets, and he never minded before because it was something he just had to do to get what he needed, but Stiles has been clinging to the thought of Derek since that night, counting on him as a way out of what he had been doing before and now he doesn't want to go back. He peels off his shirt, drops it onto the floor. He doesn't take his eyes off Derek's face as he wriggles out of his jeans, kicks them off. He stands in front of Derek in only his boxer briefs, hands fisting at his sides as he fights the urge to fidget. That's why he took up smoking, so he had something to do with his hands while he was waiting for a trick.

"Everything," Derek says.

Stiles hooks his thumbs into the elastic waist and pushes his briefs down.

Despite his discomfort, he's hard. And he's not surprised. This is exactly what he needs.

"Did you ever go anywhere with any of them?" Derek asks as his eyes move down over Stiles' naked body. "Ever get in a car? Go to a motel?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Never left the alley," he says. His fingers twitch. He wants to cover his cock, but he resists. "Didn't want to risk being murdered."

"Anyone could have slit your throat in that alley. Your father would have been called to the scene. He would have known exactly what you were doing."

"That's why this is better."

Derek smirks, nods slightly. "Turn around, Stiles. Bend over and put your hands on the bed."

Stiles does what he's told.

Derek's hands come down on Stiles' waist, slide down over his hips, thumbs pressing into the cheeks of his ass. "This has to work for both of us, Stiles. You can text me and I'll be there if I can be, but you have to do the same for me. Agreed?"

Stiles nods, let his head hang down. "Are you going to fuck me? 'Cause that would be fine. I've been fucked before, I like it."

"Shut up." Derek pulls his hands away, walks around the end of the bed. There's a bag there, Derek reaches inside, pulls out a tube of lube and walks back behind Stiles. Stiles hears the crack of the cap popping off, the squelch of liquid oozing out onto his fingers.

Slick fingers slide down his ass crack, a finger probes at his hole.

"I don't need much," Stiles says. "I took care of it before I left the house. I always do." Ever since the first time.

"Good," Derek says. "I don't wanna waste my time preparing you." But he pushes two slick fingers into Stiles' hole regardless.

Stiles gasps. He's not used to this, in the alley men just shove into him with their cocks, they don't push long thick fingers in and Derek's touching places Stiles has never been able to reach on his own. Derek's not gentle, and his fingers stab at Stiles' insides, but Stiles sees stars and he's afraid he's going to come.

He groans as he fights his orgasm, body clenching tight on Derek's fingers.

"I don't care if you come," Derek whispers. "You don't need to be hard for me to fuck you." He pushes his fingers into Stiles' prostate, twists them, and it's all over.

Fists twisting into the bed cover, pleasure-pain fusing his spine, lancing out to consume Stiles' body like lightning, his orgasm hits. Derek chooses that moment to withdraw his fingers, to shove his cock, thick and hot, into Stiles' clenching hole. He does it hard, fast, one quick thrust that burns like fire even in the throes of orgasm and turns Stiles' strangled groan into a guttural scream.

Derek lets out a whispered, "fuck," and stills, gripping Stiles' hips hard as he rides the rocking of Stiles' body through his orgasm.

Sparks of pain twitch through Stiles' body as his orgasm fades, but he's full, and it's like never before. He jerks as he registers the difference. "A condom," he murmurs, then he tries to pull away. "You have to use a condom. Derek, please, I can't—"

Derek grabs Stiles by the back of the neck, shoves his face into the bed. "Shut up, Stiles." His voice is a harsh growl, sharp claws dig into Stiles' skin. "I'm not wearing a condom for you." The claws withdraw, but he keeps Stiles' face pressed into the mattress. "It's unnecessary," he says in a softer tone that's almost a whisper and almost might be a figment of Stiles' imagination because in the next instant he's pulling back, and with his hands on Stiles' shoulders he pounds in hard, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to wipe Stiles' mind clean of anything but the punishing pull and thrust.

Derek growls as he fucks Stiles, and Stiles' mouth fills with the bed cover, fills with dust and lint. He can't get enough air, and lightheaded, he drifts into a place where there is only darkness and Derek's hands on him and Derek's cock filling him over and over and over again.

And then, Derek groans and stills. Stiles can feel Derek inside him, swelling, pumping him full of come, painting his insides so everything goes slicker, twisting his hips as his hands grip tighter. Stiles' knees go out from under him, he collapses to the bed, into the cold slimy mess of his own come, and Derek pulls back, his cock slides out, trailing wetness across Stiles' ass cheek.

The aching emptiness is familiar, the debauched shame of having been used is something Stiles knows well. He's comfortable here. He doesn't want to move. He doesn't care that he must look like a used up whore with his face in the blankets and his ass hanging off the edge of the bed with Derek's come slowly trickling down the inside of his thigh.

That's new, that feeling of come leaking out of his hole, salt stinging the stretched flesh. Despite his fear—and he hopes like hell that werewolves can't carry disease—he likes it. He loves it.

Stiles remains there in the soft darkness and listens to Derek moving around behind him. Listens to the shower. Revels in the fact that he's still lying in filth as Derek collects his things and moves toward the door.

"The room's paid up until the morning," Derek says. "Clean yourself properly before you go near Scott or my pack. They'll smell me on you." The door clicks open. "The full moon isn't the best time. Remember that."

Then Derek's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Less than a week after the full moon, Stiles sees Derek outside of school. He's talking to Scott, standing at the edge of the parking lot, as Stiles comes down the steps at the end of the day.

He freezes half-way down. He's seen Derek here dozens of times, but not since that night in the alley. Only two encounters, and suddenly Derek is part of his other life, his secret life, and he doesn't belong here at all. 

Stiles is about to turn, head back up the stairs and wait at a safe distance until Derek's gone, but before he can make his feet move, Derek lifts his head. 

Maybe he heard Stiles' heart pounding. Maybe he could smell the fear on him from across the lot. It doesn't matter. He makes eye contact, jerks his head, beckoning, and suddenly Stiles is at the bottom of the steps and crossing the space between them. 

"Pixies," Scott grins. "Derek's got an infestation." 

Stiles keeps his eyes on Scott. "Are you serious?"

"I've got a book I need you to look at," Derek says. The hint of growl in his voice makes Stiles' spine fuse. "What are you doing tonight?" 

Stiles blinks. Right. The last thing Derek would be worried about is a bunch of fairies. It's probably the first thing that popped into his head. "Homework?"

"I'll be there at eight," Derek says, then he disappears into the trees.

"Do you smell burnt paper?" Scott says, his brow creased up in confusion.

~oOo~

Stiles has been hard for an hour already by the time Derek's fingers appear on the windowsill. He watches as Derek silently launches himself into the room, convinced that the way he lands, crouched on all fours like that, is mostly for show.

He doesn't say a word, just watches as Derek rises to his feet and turns his eyes on Stiles.

What Stiles doesn't expect is for Derek to fish in his pocket and pull out what used to be a book, and slap it down on the desk beside Stiles' computer.

"Oh my god." Stiles lets out a nervous laugh. "There's actually a book? I was sure that was—" He stops at Derek's glare. "Okay. So there's a book." He picks it up, turns it over in his hands. There's nothing left but the spine and the bound edge of the pages, a little text. All the rest has been burned away, but so long ago that—to him at least—it doesn't smell of fire at all.

"An excuse?" Derek asks. "It was. I still need you to find that book."

Stiles opens a new browser window, starts typing in the address box.

"Later," Derek says, and slaps an envelope down on top of the keyboard.

Stiles' heart skips a beat, then pounds hard enough that even he can hear it. He feels like he's being tugged between two worlds, and he is, and he doesn't know which Derek this is, and he doesn't know which Stiles he needs to be right now. He pushes away from the computer, chair legs dragging across the floor as he tries to put distance between himself and the Stiles that does homework, the Stiles that researches weird things that shouldn't exist, and he attempts to become the other one, but it's hard, here in his father's house, in his own bedroom. Something's not right.

He craves a cigarette.

Derek grabs him by the collar of his shirt, hauls him out of the chair. "This was part of the deal," he hisses, walking Stiles backward until he hits the wall. "It's gotta work for both of us, do you understand?" His voice softens. "I need this, Stiles." He releases the fabric bunched in his fist, smooths out Stiles' shirt with the palm of his hand, takes half a step back.

Stiles closes his eyes, digs his fingernails into his palms just to keep his hands still. He nods, then slowly opens his eyes, dipping his head so he can look at Derek from under his eyelashes. "What do you want?" he murmurs. "Want me to suck your dick?" He reaches for Derek's belt, starts pulling it free of the buckle.

"Yes," Derek breathes, and the look in his eyes shifts from concern to hunger. Stiles lives for that, it makes his heart swell in his chest, makes everything, the worry, the panic, all the darkness just flow away.

"Get on your fucking knees."

Stiles hits the floor, fingers working at Derek's belt, at the zip. Derek's not wearing any underwear, his cock straining at the fly until Stiles releases it, big and hard and leaking. It's the first time Stiles has had it in his hand, but he doesn't waste time looking. He sucks it right down, because he knows he's good at this, takes it right down to the base, gags around the head, looking for that sound they all make when he does it.

Derek doesn't disappoint. He moans, low and deep, hips jerking forward. The back of Stiles' head hits the wall, and he rocks back on his feet, bracing himself as Derek's hand slips onto the back of his neck.

"Fuck," Derek spits, pulling back out, grabbing the base of his cock with his free hand, dragging the tip over Stiles' lower lip. "I'm gonna fuck your mouth," he says, then slides his cock back in, over Stiles' tongue, all the way to the back of his throat. "And you're just gonna take it."

Stiles blinks once for yes, twisting his hands into the sides of Derek's jeans and holding on tight as Derek starts to thrust, slow at first, gradually increasing in speed and force.

All Stiles can do is hold on, eyes watering, breathing noisily through his nose, choking on the head of Derek's dick every time it goes deep. Spit dribbles down his chin, onto the front of his shirt, soaks through and chills him. He doesn't care. Somehow, this, the way he becomes just a vessel, something to fuck, got mixed up with the hunger in their eyes when they looked at him. Feeling dirty like this, feeling used, made him feel worthwhile, made him feel desired, and at least he knows he's good for something.

"You belong to me," Derek grunts, his thrusts becoming erratic, jerky. "You get on your knees for me... Fuck..."

Stiles keeps his eyes on Derek's face, blinks tears away.

"Mine," Derek whines, and he thrusts deep, pulls Stiles' mouth onto his cock. Salt spreads over the back of Stiles' tongue, fills his throat, chokes him, but Derek doesn't let up. Come spills out of his mouth, dribbles down his chin and onto his shirt, and Stiles is so hard it hurts. He shifts, moving so that the jeans tight over his cock drag in just the right way but it's not enough, not nearly enough.

Derek hasn't even stopped coming before Stiles lets go of him, sucking air desperately through his nose as he tears at the button of his jeans.

But Derek pulls away, shoving Stiles' head back and looking down at him as one last spurt hits his cheek and dribbles down onto his shirt. "Don't," Derek says, then he turns away, tucking himself back into his jeans. "I'll tell you when you can come." 

Slowly, Stiles drops his hands to the floor, but he whines. "I'm fucking dying here, Derek, please." 

Derek walks toward the window. With his hand on the sill, he says, "Find the book first," then he leaps through it and he's gone. 

With Derek out of sight, it would be so easy for Stiles to get himself off, kneeling on the floor, covered in come, throat burning with each breath, but for some reason he doesn't. Derek would know, for a start, he could be sitting out there listening, he'd hear it. But also, Stiles thinks Derek needs him to do as he's told. He doesn't understand why, but he knows it. 

So he peels off his shirt, wipes his face and neck, and he goes to the computer and opens the Project Gutenberg website. 

Five minutes later, he emails the book to Derek. By the time he gets the sent confirmation, his hand is already on his cock, and he's close, with his eyes closed and the taste of Derek on the back of his tongue, and his phone dings right before the computer does. He opens his eyes, sees the reply from Derek, and it tips him over the edge. He comes hard, each spurt almost painful, each spasm racking his body and ripping a cry from him that makes him thankful his father is working. 

Then he slumps in the chair, wipes his hand off on his jeans before he opens the email. 

It's a simple, ' _Thanks_ '.

Stiles shuts down the computer and stashes Derek's envelope, unopened, under his mattress with the other one before he heads for the shower. 

~oOo~

When he gets back into his bedroom, his phone flashes a message. It's another email from Derek, sent only minutes after the last. It's just a question, short, simple. ' _Why did you do it?_ ' 

At first, Stiles thinks he means why did he wait to come until he'd found the book, and he sends off a reply.

' _Because you told me to._ '

No sooner has it gone than he realizes that's not what Derek meant at all. He sends another.

' _Because they wanted me._ ' 


	4. Chapter 4

The Jeep's spare is flat.

Not that one good tire would have done Stiles any good at all considering fairies let the air out of all four of them.

"Pixies," Derek corrects. "They're different."

"I'm still stuck way the fuck out in the middle of fucking nowhere in the middle of the night and I can't just run home on all fours like the rest of you." Stiles sucks in air, has to remind himself to breathe out again so he doesn't hyperventilate. On top of everything else, that would be borderline disastrous. "How the crap am I gonna get home?"

Derek turns away from him, looking back toward the trees. "We can walk to my house from here. I'll drive you into town."

"Okay," Stiles says, trying to get his voice back to calm and even. On the inside, he's half-way between sheer panic and desperate arousal. He pushes it down, hopes the frantic beating of his heart is not so different from anger because if Scott or Isaac or Jackson guess that this reaction is to the thought of being alone with Derek... Well. He'd rather gut himself with a spork.

He watches the other werewolves run off toward town, then ducks in through the passenger side of the Jeep, digging in the glove box for the lighter and half a pack of cigarettes hidden in the back. He shoves them deep into his jacket pocket, and starts off into the woods after Derek.

It's dark. There's no moon to filter though where the trees are thinnest, and Stiles trips before he's gone two steps. Standing up, brushing dirt and dead leaves from his jeans, he hears Derek's distant sigh, and his footsteps as they come toward him. Then there's a hand bunched in the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him forward.

Slowly, his eyes adjust. He can see outlines, shades of black that indicate trees, and the spaces between them. He pushes at the hand on his arm to get it off. "I'm good," he says. "I can see now. Sort of."

Derek lets go, but he doesn't go on ahead. He walks beside Stiles, putting out a hand to slow him when the path gets rough. They walk in silence, until Stiles has no idea how long they've been walking, has no idea where they are in terms of the road, or Derek's house. "How much farther, Papa Smurf?" he finally asks.

There's a snort of suppressed laughter from beside him. "We're about half-way there," Derek says. "Need a rest, Stiles?"

"Fuck you." Still, Stiles stops dead in his tracks, and with one hand on a tree, sinks down to sit at the base of it. It's wide, with roots that form steps down as the path drops away, and it's not comfortable, but he can sit on it without fear of falling into the dirt. "Just for a minute."

Derek leans against another tree, his shape a vague outline in the darkness. "Take as long as you need."

Stiles can't see anything, but the hair on the back of his neck rises, and he can feel Derek watching him. His skin warms, the flush spreading up his chest, neck, heating his cheeks, and he drags his eyes from the Derek-shape. His fingers twitch, so he pulls the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one up, as if the darkness, as if the feeling of being watched, of being examined, triggers that other Stiles into being.

The flame from the lighter illuminates the scene in a brief flash, and Stiles wonders why he didn't think of that before, didn't think about using the light from the phone in his pocket. He sucks smoke into his lungs, blows it out and sighs as nicotine enters his system, slowing his heartbeat, calming him. Then he looks up, right at the Derek-shape, challenging the gaze that he can feel but not see.

"You okay?" Derek says.

"I'm fine," Stiles murmurs. He notices the hint of heat, of invitation, in his own voice.

Derek exhales through his nose, slow, audible, a soft sound of amusement. "You should be careful with that," he says, barely more than a whisper. "That thing you do."

Stiles swallows the sudden lump in his throat, looks back toward the ground. He's terrified of giving himself away, of exposing his secret to his friends or his father. "I'm so messed up," he whispers.

Derek makes hardly any sound as he moves, as he picks his way back up the path to where Stiles sits. He crouches down, takes the burning cigarette out of Stiles' fingers, stubs it out in the dirt.

"I wanted that," Stiles says, without conviction.

"They stink," Derek says. "You wouldn't believe what they smell like to werewolves. You smell much better without them."

Stiles jerks his head up. All he can see is darkness, but he can feel Derek close, so close he can feel the warmth of another body near him, can hear each slow inhale and exhale. His heart races again, and it hurts to breathe.

"We're all messed up," Derek whispers, and he slips a warm hand around the back of Stiles' neck, cups the back of his head. Stiles thinks Derek's going to kiss him at first, but then he tips his head back, and instead presses his lips to Stiles' throat. "Every one of us." Another kiss, to the side of Stiles' neck. "And we're all too busy worrying about our own shit to see anyone else."

"Some people's shit is deeper than others," Stiles pants. He's getting hard, his jeans feeling tighter, almost too tight already. "Some of us have more to deal with."

Derek chuckles, breathes hot against Stiles' collarbone. "Right." The tone of his voice is darker now, thicker, rougher. "You've got self-esteem issues. Newsflash. You're a teenager. It goes with the territory. Most kids don't start whoring themselves just to get a little attention."

Stiles jerks, tries to shove Derek away, but he's not quick enough. Derek grabs his wrists, pins them to the trunk of the tree behind his head, kicks Stiles' thighs apart and kneels between them.

"Get fucked," Stiles moans, struggling, but he can't move. "You were looking for it that night, so what's your excuse?"

Derek leans forward, puts his mouth close to Stiles' ear. His breath is quick and shallow. "I could kill them," he whispers. "I want to. Every time one of them has a class, or goes to work, or has to be home in time for dinner. I want to tear them apart. I want to punish them, to make an example of them. They should belong to _me._ I'm their Alpha." His voice has become a growl, gravelly and dark, the tiniest hint of lisp that means he's shifted and is talking around teeth. "But for an hour, _you_ can belong to me. For an hour, I can _own_ you. I can make you do whatever I want."

"Shit," Stiles says, gasping for breath. "Shit. Okay." He nods, feels the prick of claws on his scalp. "It's okay. I will, I'll do anything you want." To his own ears, he sounds scared, terrified, but he's not. His jeans are too tight again, and the flush that spreads fast over his skin is arousal. Derek's gotta know, he's got to smell the difference. This isn't fear.

The low rumbling growl that vibrates through Derek's body proves it. He comes closer, tucking his knees under Stiles' ass, lifting him off the base of the tree. "I'm going to fuck you," he says, thrusting against Stiles, and Stiles can feel how hard he is even through two layers of denim.

"Here?" Stiles squeaks, because no lube, no preparation. He came out to help them chase a bunch of pixies out of the woods, not for this.

"Right here. Right now." Derek pulls back, catching Stiles before he hits the base of the tree again, grabbing him by the waist and flipping him over. 

Stiles scrabbles at the stepped roots, digging his fingers into the hard-packed dirt around them, just trying to hold on as Derek drags at his jeans. "Button," he says, as the waistband digs into his hips. "Zip."

A second later, Stiles' jeans loosen and slip down his legs. Derek yanks his shoes off, they hit the ground—somewhere—with the wet rustle of soggy leaves, and then his jeans and underwear are gone and Stiles feels the cool night air on his bare skin. He's only half-hard now, because he's going to get fucked dry, and he knows it's going to hurt, but as Derek's thumb drags between his cheeks, his dick twitches and leaks precome. "Could you..." he starts, and then swallows. "Derek, I said anything, and I meant it, okay, it's just... I'm not ready for this."

"Shut up," Derek growls, his thumb pressing against Stiles' hole.

Stiles breathes, tries to relax, but he's just clenching up. Then Derek's moving, but not up and over him like Stiles expects. Instead, he's moving backward, moving down, until Stiles feels Derek's hot breath on his ass. "Oh, my _god_ ," he breathes, when he realizes what's going to happen, and then Derek's hot, wet tongue is in the crack of his ass.

"Fuck," Stiles gasps. "That's an option."

"Stop talking." Derek spreads Stiles with his thumbs, and then his tongue is back there again, flicking, dragging, and it's suddenly very wet, very slippery, and Stiles wonders if werewolf saliva is better than human for this sort of thing because he knows that human isn't the best, it'll do in a pinch, like the first time, when he let a stranger fuck him only because it was late and Stiles needed it, needed something.

The guy didn't do _this_ , though. He spit on his hand and smeared it over the condom and then just shoved his dick in. It hurt more than anything Stiles could imagine, and it wasn't until the guy was balls deep that Stiles thought to tell him that it was his first time. Then the guy went slow, whispering in Stiles' ear, that he was so pretty, so good, so tight, so hot, and 'it's okay, baby, everything's gonna be okay,' when Stiles couldn't suppress a sob.

Just like that time, Stiles can't help the cry that bubbles up out of him when Derek's tongue breaches him, stretches him open, but there's no pain, nothing but warm shivers of pleasure that spread outward, throughout his body, make his dick leak onto the dirt beneath him. He swallows it back, chokes on the words that want to come out, because Derek's told him not to speak. 

"Let me hear it," Derek says, as he lifts his mouth away briefly, then it's back, tongue thrusting inside, saliva dripping off Stiles' balls. 

Stiles lets it out, one long, drawn out moan, deep and primal, a wordless sound of complete abandon. There's dirt caked under his fingernails, the smell of leaf decay in his nostrils, and his knees are grazed, possibly bleeding, from the hard roots of the tree, but he doesn't care. This is the best he's ever had it, ever, because no one's ever done anything that was meant to make only him feel good before. Maybe it's just a means to an end, to get him ready to be fucked, but right now it feels like Derek cares, like he wants to make Stiles feel good. 

Derek stops, lifts his head, and his thumb presses against Stiles' hole. There's pressure, brief, and it slips right in, easy, deep. "Good," Derek says, rubbing slow circles on Stiles' lower back. "So good." 

Stiles whines, presses back. "Please," he begs. 

"Ready for more?" Derek pulls his thumb out, pushes with something thicker. Two fingers this time, slowly sliding in, filling Stiles up. 

There's friction this time, it's not as slick, not as easy. Stiles gasps, sucking air, digging his fingers deeper into the roots. "I'm okay," he breathes, convincing himself as much as Derek. "I'm fine." 

But then there's a warm tongue on him, flicking at the place Derek's fingers are penetrating, and it's wet again, warm and slick and perfect. Derek's fingers go deep, slide out and in, touch that place inside that no one ever hit until Derek, and Stiles moans, writhes, begs for more. 

But he doesn't want to come. "Not yet," he whines. "Not yet, don't wanna come yet. While you're fucking me, please, Derek, please just fuck me." 

The fingers slide out. A tongue flicks at his loosened hole, washing spit into him, filling him up with it. Over and over again, until Stiles is dripping, wet, until he can't bear it any longer and unclenches his fist from the root he's been clinging to, and cups his balls in his hand. 

They're so tight, hard, hurting. He could make himself come, but he won't. It would only take a few strokes, maybe not even that. He's so close, but he's got to wait. 

And then finally. Finally Derek pulls away. Stiles waits, for the blunt pressure, for the forward thrust. It doesn't come. 

Derek's hand on Stiles' hip, he turns him. Pulls him onto his lap, spreading his legs, lifting him under the knees. The roots of the tree, exposed to air and weather, are hard and rough, scrape grazes into the skin of Stiles' back. Then the hard, uncomfortable surface is gone as Stiles is lifted, as Derek reaches under him, spreading his arms under Stiles' back, holding him to his chest as he pushes inside. 

Stiles groans, deep and guttural. Derek goes deep, Stiles' own weight forcing him down onto Derek's cock. It's heat and pressure, a burning stretch, but it's never been like this before. Stiles has never looked into the eyes of a man while he's been inside him before, and it's dark, but Stiles can see the shine of Derek's eyes, he can feel the heat of his breath on his face, the hard lines of Derek's abdomen against his dick. "Derek," Stiles gasps. It's the only word he knows, the only thing he can think. 

Derek rocks up into Stiles, fucks him slow. "You feel good," Derek whispers, his lips close to Stiles' ear. "Fuck, you're tight. You're so good, Stiles." 

And Stiles' heart swells. This is better than any of it, any of them, even the first, a man outside a liquor store who told him men would want him, would pay to get his pretty lips around their dick, who was the first to lift a little of the darkness away from him, just for a short time. 

Stiles turns his head, an instinct, searching for warmth, for connection. They've never kissed, not once, and Stiles has never thought about it, doesn't think of it now, not like that. But he finds Derek's lips, warm, wet, parted against his own, and they share their breath as Derek's arms tighten around him. 

Derek turns away before it ever becomes a kiss. And at Stiles' whimper of loss he presses his lips against Stiles' throat instead, whispering to him. "It's okay," he says. "It's gonna be okay."

Stiles comes with Derek whispering in his ear. The words are irrelevant, the sound soothing, the warmth of Derek's breath as the night air chills his bare skin grounding. His body clamps down on the cock inside him, hot fluid spreads between them, and Derek's moans join his high pitched cries. 

~oOo~

"Tell me you're never going back there," Derek says as he waits for Stiles to tie his shoes in the darkness.

"Where?" Stiles looks up. He thinks Derek's facing away from him, but he can't be sure. He's just a shape, black on darkest gray.

"The street, Stiles." Derek sighs. "Promise me."

Stiles frowns. "I promise," he says, without a thought. "I don't want to go back. I don't need to." Because I have you, he adds silently.

They walk the rest of the way in silence. Derek's steadying hand on him as they walk among the trees is suddenly everything.

They don't go into the house. Derek guides Stiles into his car, starts the engine, and that's all Stiles remembers until Derek wakes him in his own driveway. And when Stiles puts his head on the pillow he realizes that this time, there's no envelope. 


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles doesn't want to touch it. 

He sees the envelope when he pulls himself up in bed, reaching for his phone to check the time. The phone acts like a paperweight, holding it down as though it might blow away.

The window is pushed closed, but not latched, the pale light of pre-dawn beyond it.

Still barely awake, Stiles types out a text message. 

**You fucking coward. You know it's wrong, or you wouldn't sneak in here and leave it while I'm sleeping.**

He sends it before he can reconsider, seething with anger, pain lancing through his chest. Then he collapses back onto the mattress and pulls the covers up over his head.

He wakes, later, to knuckles banging on glass. Scott's grinning at him from the window, bright morning sun beyond. Stiles beckons him in, and the window swings outward.

"Thought you might need a ride," Scott says, with something that's half-way between a grin and a frown. "You didn't answer my texts, so I'm here to make sure Derek didn't kill you last night and bury your body in the woods."

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter, but there's no humor in it. "Late night." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubs his hands over his face and head. "What time is it?" He reaches for his phone, and sees the envelope again. A sharp, shooting pain flashes in his chest, and he chokes.

"You okay? You look sick." Scott lifts his head, sniffs the air. "Has Derek been in here?"

Stiles considers telling Scott everything. But once it's out, there's no putting it away. Scott will always look at him differently after that. "I fell asleep in the car," Stiles says. "He must have dragged me up here—"

"Well, you need to take a shower, because he's all over you and it's freaking me out." Scott grins. "Come on. You've got time before school, but you're gonna have to hurry."

Stiles showered when he got in, needing to scrub the dirt out of his fingernails, the blood and grit from his knees, the scent of Derek from everywhere else, but he gets under scalding water, and scrubs himself from head to toe all over again.

~oOo~

Stiles never gets a reply to his angry text. And it's a week before he gets the Jeep back, because he has to replace all four of his wheels after some enterprising thief decided to strip it while it was out in the woods.

He begs his dad for a loan to do it, because he refuses to open any of the three envelopes he has stashed underneath his mattress.

Things are quiet with the pixies gone and no other threat or annoyance has yet appeared. It's the space between weird, a strange kind of silence.

It gives Stiles too much time to think, and it's this that people start to notice. Well, the only two people that care, anyway.

"You're quiet lately," his dad says one night at dinner, the only night he comes home to eat. Then he's gone again, and it's easier that way because Stiles can't tell him why.

Scott sniffs him and tells him with a worried look that he smells of fear.

As soon as Stiles gets the Jeep back, he digs three envelopes and a handful of cash out from under his mattress, and he drives to Derek's house.

Derek watches from the porch as Stiles pulls up, and when he gets out of the car, Derek turns and walks back inside. Stiles follows, dragging his feet up the steps.

He pulls out the contents of his jacket pocket and throws it to the floor. Three white envelopes and a handful of crumpled tens flutter to the dusty boards. "I don't want it," Stiles says, fighting to keep his voice even, but it shakes and the words get stuck in his throat. He blinks rapidly as his eyes sting. "I don't want your money."

Derek doesn't react. All he does is stare at the floor, for a long time. "You didn't open them?" he says finally, and stoops, to pick up one of the envelopes. "This one?" he asks, holding it up, staring into Stiles' eyes. "You didn't open it?"

Stiles stares back. His attempts to hold back tears have failed, and his cheeks are wet. "I never wanted the money, but that—" He chokes on the words. "It was different. Wasn't it? I thought it was different. And that...that fucking envelope." He waves at it with his hand, wishing it would disappear, wishing it had never existed. "That was insulting."

He turns away, to hide the tears that run down his cheeks and wet his shirt. He wants to run, because he's humiliated, because he thought Derek felt it too, but he can't have. Not if he thought he had to pay for it.

Derek comes up behind him, Stiles feels the heat of that other body. He gasps when Derek's hand wraps around his upper arm and a spark of electricity shoots straight to his chest. Then Derek's breath raises the hair on the back of his neck, and he wants to lean back, to lean against him, but he forces himself to stand upright.

"Open it," Derek says, his voice a low, gruff whisper. His arm comes around in front of Stiles, and he presses the envelope to his chest. "Open the fucking thing, Stiles."

Stiles turns his head, just enough to see the look on Derek's face from the corner of his eye. His usual mask is gone, and he just looks broken.

Stiles grabs the corner of the envelope, slides it out from under Derek's hand, which remains where it is, pressed firmly to Stiles' chest. Stiles tears it open, lets the strip of paper fall to the floor, and he twists the envelope in two fingers to make the opening gape.

"It _was_ different," Derek says, his voice nothing more than a whisper in Stiles' ear.

There's no money in this envelope. Stiles never noticed that it was thinner than the others, lighter. All that is inside is a slip of paper, and he pulls it out, slow, because he's got no idea what it means.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, choking on the words, pressing his forehead to the back of Stiles' head.

Stiles reads what's written on the paper. It's just a few words, but he's got to go over them again and again just to understand. "No," he whispers, when he takes them in. "No. This is stupid." He crumples the note in his fist, drops it to the floor and turns around in Derek's arms. "You're breaking up with me?"

Derek slips his hand onto the back of Stiles' neck, holds him firm. "I'm sorry," he says, and then his lips come down, hot and hard on Stiles' mouth, and he lets out a sound that's half-way between growl and moan. 

Stiles tips his head back, opens his mouth. It's their first real kiss, the first time he's tasted Derek's tongue, but he knows it's goodbye. He holds on desperately, never wanting it to end, one arm around Derek's neck, the other hand twisting in the front of his shirt, trying to hang on, to keep him there, but it's futile.

Derek pushes him away, turns from him, refuses to meet his eyes. "You've gotta go, Stiles. We're not doing this anymore." 

"No," Stiles begs. "I don't wanna go back there, Derek. Don't do this." 

"You promised, Stiles. You said you wouldn't. And you're not going to. You're worth more than that."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, I'm not. _You_ don't want me.” He can't hold the tears back now, and they distort his vision, turn Derek into a muted blur of blue and white and darkest brown. He fades into the background, until Stiles' eyes spill over and he reappears. “Why didn't you just leave me there?” he cries, his feet carrying him forward, his hands reaching out. Derek turns, and Stiles shoves him, pushes at his chest until he stumbles back and hits the wall. Stiles twists his fingers into Derek's shirt, shoving at him, trying to hurt him even though he knows he can't. “You don't want me, you never wanted me, why didn't you just leave me _alone_?”

Derek grabs Stiles' head, pulls it down to his shoulder, wraps his arms around him even as he continues to shove at him with fists and claws at him with blunt, human fingers. “I do,” Derek whispers. “I want you. But I can't have you. I'm sorry. I can't do that to you. I can't.”

~oOo~

Stiles doesn't remember driving home. He doesn't remember getting in the shower, but here he is again, scrubbing the scent of Derek off his skin.

There's something final about water hot enough to paint his skin red, to sear his throat as he opens his mouth under the spray.

And when he climbs out, into the steam-filled room, and his head spins, he doesn't try to stay upright. He lets his knees collapse and goes down, drags the towel from the rail and cries into it, until there's nothing left.


	6. Chapter 6

Like he knows Stiles is walking a knife edge, Scott hovers, always there, always checking on him, and Stiles wonders what he knows.

He doesn't ask.

One night Scott can't be there, and Stiles marvels that it's been little more than a month since Derek found him in the alley. A little more than a month since he's been out on the street, cigarette in hand, waiting for someone to show a little interest.

He needs it. 

As soon as it's dark Stiles gets in the Jeep and heads for his alley. He didn't want to, still doesn't, because it's nothing compared to the way he felt when Derek touched him. He needs something to take the edge off. Something to ease the hollow inside him. 

Stiles parks the Jeep, lights a cigarette, and tries to ignore the part of him that's telling him this is wrong, that it's gone way past simply letting strangers fuck him for money. As fucked up as that makes him, it's worse now, because the thought of anyone but Derek touching him makes his skin crawl. 

But he's gotta have something. It's been days since he got more than a few hours sleep a night, too busy turning Derek's words over in his head, twisting them into something ugly, feeling the rejection as it cuts at his heart. 

He pops the door open, locks the Jeep, and walks the few blocks to his alley. 

It's early. People are still out with their families. It helps though, to be here, with the smell of dust and exhaust and wet brick in his nostrils. He chain smokes and becomes someone else, another Stiles entirely, one he fears he won't be able to shake off quite so easily when he goes back home, when he goes back to school.

Maybe that's for the best. There's nothing left of him otherwise.

A man stops at the mouth of the alley. There's something familiar about him, about the way he stands, about the blond hair and pretty face. Stiles remembers him, he's fucked Stiles before, before Derek found him here.

As he approaches, the man grins. "Hey," he says. "Haven't seen you in weeks."

Stiles takes a long drag of his cigarette then grinds it to nothing underneath the toe of his shoe, and he blows out the smoke as he steps forward to meet the guy. "Did you miss me?" he drawls, and it's so natural, so easy.

The man huffs out a laugh. "Yeah. I looked for you." He reaches out, takes Stiles by the waist and pulls him in. "Last time was fun. I've been dying to do that again."

"Then do it," Stiles whispers, against the man's neck. He flinches, but tries to push the revulsion down, because he needs this. "I'll do you for free."

The man laughs again. "Nice." He guides Stiles back to the wall, into the shadows, takes a step back and starts to unbuckle his belt. "Turn around, you little slut," he whispers, low and dangerous. "So you're giving it away now? Want to get fucked that badly?" He shoves Stiles around to face the wall, his belt buckle rattling.

"Yes," Stiles whispers, cheek pressed into the damp brick, fingers dragging at the button of his jeans. There's a lump in his throat, and he chokes on it. His eyes prickle with tears, and he blinks them away.

Then it's just too much. This stranger, with his hands all over him, tugging at the top of his jeans, desperate to get inside. Stiles feels sick, bile rising up in his throat, burning. "I can't," he chokes, tries to push the guy off him. "I'm sorry, I can't."

But the man is bigger, stronger, and he shoves Stiles back into the wall. "Are you kidding me?" he hisses. "You think you're gonna get me like this and then say no? Not gonna happen." He gets his hand around Stiles' waist, grabs the open button and yanks. The zipper slides down, and Stiles' jeans loosen.

"No," Stiles whimpers, and gets enough presence of mind to jerk his arm back, forcing his elbow into the guy's stomach. The man lets out a grunt and doubles over, and Stiles shoves him further, enough to wriggle out from between him and the wall.

He only makes it two steps before the guy gets his hand into the back of Stiles' shirt. He's jerked backward, choking, the guy pulls him around, shoves him back against the wall, winding him. "Fucking whore," the guy spits, and backhands Stiles across the face.

Pain flares through Stiles' jaw, his vision flashes white, and he tastes blood. Dazed, he slides down the wall, and his vision clears just in time to see a closed fist coming toward him. He flinches, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

It doesn't hit.

Stiles opens his eyes when he hears a whine of pained surprise. The fist that was coming for him hangs in the air, another hand wrapped around it. The guy Stiles was going to let fuck him is moaning, knees bent and body contorted as he tries to get away from the pain.

Stiles isn't surprised when he sees Derek standing beside him, but Derek's eyes are on the other man. He doesn't so much as glance down.

Stiles hears bones crack, the guy cries out in pain, and Derek drops him. Then, and only then, does he look down at Stiles, at the same moment he bends and drags Stiles onto his feet. "We've gotta go," is all he says, and he drags Stiles out of the alley and onto the street.

~oOo~

Derek's hand grips Stiles' upper arm painfully as he drags him along. Passing men turn their heads to stare, and Derek lets go, stepping in front of Stiles protectively, eyes flicking round often to check. 

"Do those up," he growls, glancing down at Stiles' crotch and looking as if he's going to be sick. Then he grimaces and yanks Stiles into a doorway, pressing him against the solid surface but averting his eyes, seemingly unable to meet Stiles' gaze. 

"Thanks," Stiles says, searching Derek's face as he pulls up his zipper, pops the button back through the hole. "Changed my mind." He forces a laugh, but it comes out sounding manic. "He didn't like that much."

Derek's eyes flick to Stiles' face. "What?"

"I couldn't do it." Stiles feels wetness on his lip and wipes at it. His hand comes away with a dark smear that must be blood but it just looks black here, out from under the streetlights. He wipes his hand on his jeans and looks back up to Derek's face. "I don't know what I'm gonna do now." 

"You're gonna go home and forget about it." He scrubs his hand over his face, looks back out onto the street. "What the fuck were you thinking, Stiles? What the hell did you think you were doing, coming back here?"

Stiles stiffens. "What do you think I was doing? What I had to do. You didn't want—" 

Derek jerks back around. "I told you not to come back here," he spits, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing red. 

"You don't own me," Stiles spits. His head pounds, and he feels dizzy. "I don't belong to you anymore. You don't care what happens to me." He's crying again, and the salt stings his lip.

Derek's hand clamps around his throat. "Then what the fuck am I doing here?" he hisses. "Think I want to see some guy with his hands all over you? I don't. I could've killed that man. I wanted to." 

Stiles claws at Derek's fingers. "You're hurting me," he rasps, unable to get enough air. His knees go out from under him, peeling paint on the door at his back catching in his shirt as he goes down. His head spins, and his fingers loosen, his arms falling, his eyes closing. 

"Fuck," Derek breathes, his grip jerking away. "I'm sorry, Stiles." He catches Stiles under the arms, lifts him, holds him to his body. "God, I'm sorry."

Stiles sucks in air and Derek's scent. He lets himself go limp in Derek's arms, dropping his head onto Derek's shoulder and breathing him in. "S'okay," he whispers. "Just... Don't let me go." He reaches up, rubs the back of his head where the pounding seems to originate. "I think I hit my head." His fingers come away sticky.

"We've gotta get you home," Derek says, tugging Stiles back out of the cover of the doorway. Stiles stumbles, and he tries to keep his feet underneath him. When they get to the Jeep, and Derek leans him against the passenger side, fishing in his pocket for the keys, Stiles sighs and wraps his arms around Derek's neck. 

"Don't," Derek says, and pushes Stiles into the passenger seat. 

~oOo~

The shower's running. Steam fills the bathroom. Derek drags Stiles' shirt over his head. 

"Are we gonna fuck?" Stiles asks, because he really doesn't know. There are things in his head that don't make sense. Like: Derek doesn't want him, but he's peeling Stiles' clothes off, piece by piece. 

"No," Derek says. "You're taking a shower." He frowns and looks up into Stiles' eyes. "You should take your jeans off." 

Stiles finds Derek's hand, drags it over the front of his jeans. "I want you to do it." He leans back against the bathroom counter, tries to pull Derek with him. 

Derek's steps back. "Don't, Stiles. You're not thinking straight right now." 

Stiles turns around, pushes his jeans down past his hips, kicks off his shoes and toes off his jeans, looking down between his legs as the tight denim peels away. His head is still thumping, and he's only half-hard, but he doesn't care. "I know enough," he says. "I want you. Want you all over me. Inside me. I belong to you, Derek. I'm yours and I want everyone to know it, to know that no one else can touch me." Stiles leans against the counter with one hand, drops his head, closes his eyes, palms his dick with the other. "I want you to own me. Your scent on my skin, so thick I can never wash it off." 

There's a low, rumbling growl from behind him, and a warm palm pressed to the small of his back. "Stiles," Derek says, voice low and rough. He comes closer, his jeans brushing the back of Stiles' thighs, then he stiffens, drags his hand away. "You stink of him," he hisses. He grabs Stiles by the arms, pulls him up, pushes him into the shower. "Wash it off. Get rid of it."

~oOo~

There's a pair of sleep pants and a T-shirt laid out for him when he turns off the water and emerges, dripping. Stiles almost smiles at the thought of Derek rummaging through Stiles' drawers, but it hurts too much to smile. It occurs to him that Derek's done it so that Stiles doesn't return to his bedroom wrapped only in a towel, too, and the rejection stings more than the cut on his lip.

He wipes at the mirror with a wet hand to clear the steam. His lip is swollen, his jaw is bruising, and he prods at the back of his head with his fingers to find a bump and a wound still oozing sticky fluid. The heat in the bathroom only makes his headache worse. He can barely think, and he tries to remember whether these are symptoms of concussion, whether Derek was right to try and keep him awake on the drive home.

He should feel sick, he thinks. It's there, but only when Stiles remembers that man's hands on him, and how close he came to letting someone other than Derek inside him.

Stiles swallows down bile, and grabs a towel.

~oOo~

There's a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on the nightstand when Stiles enters his room, and he doesn't see Derek at first, not until after he's collapsed onto his bed, hands pressing the edge of the mattress, fingers digging in as if they'll keep him in one piece, as if they'll keep him safe from the darkness that creeps in at the edges of his vision.

Derek steps out of the corner.

Stiles looks up, eyes welling with tears. Everything's screwed, so messed up. He hadn't wanted anyone to know what he had been doing at night, but it's not until this moment that he realizes he's ashamed of it. He's disgusted with himself, and even fresh out of the shower, he feels dirty. "I can't wash it off," he whispers, pleading with Derek to help him. "It's never gonna come off, is it?"

"Shh," Derek says, his voice softer than Stiles has ever heard it. He hands Stiles the glass, two pills, brings Stiles' hand to his mouth, urging him to take them, to wash them down. "It's gone," he says. "You're clean."

"No." Stiles shakes his head. "I can feel it." He shudders. "All of them." His stomach contracts, his throat burns, as he thinks of all the men he's had in his mouth. He can taste the bitterness on the back of his tongue.

He sucks air into his lungs to fight the nausea, until his head spins and pinpricks of light sparkle at the edges of his vision. He grabs for Derek's hand, finds his wrist, digs his fingernails into the flesh in a desperate plea for help, because he can't speak, can't find the words, can't get them past the thickness in his throat.

"Stop," Derek says, hands on each side of Stiles' face, thumb stroking over the hot pulse of his split lip. And then like it's nothing, he kisses Stiles, lips cool on the heated flesh, soft and soothing. "There's nothing wrong with you," he says when he pulls away, far too soon. He drags his nose across Stiles' cheek, all the way to his temple. "You smell good. Like Stiles."

"I can taste them," Stiles chokes, fighting the spasms of his diaphragm. His fingers twist into the fabric of Derek's shirt and he leans toward the warmth, toward safety.

Derek tips Stiles' head back, lifts his chin. "There's nothing there." His lips press against Stiles' mouth again, tongue tracing the split skin, teasing Stiles' lips open.

Stiles whimpers, sure that Derek's going to recoil, to pull back, disgusted. He can't fight it though, when Derek holds his jaw open, licks right into his mouth, sucks on his tongue. Despite his fear, he starts to get hard, dick swelling with heat and blood, and he grunts as a wave of arousal washes over him, making him shiver and leak wetness onto his pants.

"Nothing," Derek breathes. Then he's kissing Stiles' again, pushing him down onto the mattress, spreading him out on the bed and covering him with his own body. "Stiles," he whispers, warm breath washing over Stiles' cheek, down his throat, through the fabric of his T-shirt. He pushes it up, baring Stiles' chest, helping Stiles to sit up so he can tug it off over Stiles' head. Then he sits up on his knees, drags his own shirt off, drops it on the floor beside the bed. 

Stiles looks up at him. Derek looks... He looks scared, and Stiles has never seen him look that way before. "I'm sorry," Stiles says, as he reaches up, dragging his hand down over Derek's stomach, hooking his fingers into the waist of Derek's jeans. "I thought it would help," he says. "Going back there. It didn't. It made it worse, because when he touched me, all I could think about was you. How wrong it was that I was letting anyone else near me but you." He licks his lips, teases at the split. "I'm sorry." 

Derek works his jaw, and then lowers himself back down. He's heavy on Stiles, but it's a solid, reassuring weight, and Stiles slides his hands up over Derek's bare back.

"I wanted to kill him," Derek whispers, his mouth moving over Stiles' lips. "I watched you, told myself I was keeping you safe, but I had already decided I was going to kill him for touching you. Then he hit you, and I don't remember getting there, and if I hadn't taken you away I would have torn his throat out." 

Derek's breathing hard when he stops speaking, hot breath on Stiles' skin. He just has to move a little, turn his head a fraction, and he can taste it, Derek's breath, hot and quick in his mouth. He breathes it in, decides he could stay like this forever, decides he can live off it, off Derek's breath and his warmth and the feeling of Derek's heart beating against his own. 

Then Derek moves. 

It's a minute rock of his hips, not much more than a slow twitch. It still sends shivers throughout Stiles' body, makes him whimper and press his palms harder against Derek's back. Derek does it again, a gentle roll of his pelvis, soft, but with intent, pressing his hard cock through heavy jeans into the hollow of Stiles' hip.

"God," Stiles whispers, arching up, looking for the same for himself. His sleep pants are thin, he can already feel the wetness as it leaks through the fabric at the tip of his cock. It rubs against rough denim, hot friction down his length, and he moans and splays his fingers out over the skin of Derek's back.

Muscle shifts under Stiles' hands as Derek takes his turn, changing the angle, dragging his cock up the length of Stiles' dick, and then Stiles' cannot move, as Derek pins him, holds him still, presses his hips into the mattress as he continues to move in long, slow, excruciating thrusts. His lips move over Stiles' mouth, tongue soothing the cut. In the part of Stiles' mind that can process thought, he wonders if Derek can taste his blood, wonders if it tastes any different because of the things he's done.

Derek's rhythm never breaks, even when he gets a hand between them, and the denim peels away, the rough seams disappear, and Stiles can feel hot, hard flesh through his pants. "Mine," he gasps, trying to shove at the waist of his pants, but the elastic keeps rolling back. "Get them off, get mine off, wanna feel you."

"Yeah," Derek murmurs, and he lifts his hips, just enough to slide Stiles' pants down to his thighs. Another thrust, long and slow, drags a trail of sticky wetness the length of Stiles' dick, all the way from the base to the tip, then he stills, twists, and Stiles' pants are gone.

Without thought, Stiles spreads his thighs, clamps them tight around Derek's hips. "I want you everywhere," Stiles pants, pressing his head back into the pillow, pulling his hips up off the bed. "But, fuck, get your jeans off. They're in the way. I can't feel your skin."

There's a flash of movement, a sensation not unlike carpet burn, and a low thud coupled with the rattle of a belt. Stiles' eyes flick to the sound, an untidy pile of denim on the floor, then Derek's hands are on Stiles' thighs, wrapping them around his hips, and Stiles is spread open. "Tell me no, Stiles. If you don't want it, tell me no."

Stiles shakes his head, because it's all he does want. This is nothing like the man who hit him. Everything about that was wrong, but this is just how it should be. "Lube," he says, and flings out his hand. "There." His fingers fall short of the nightstand, but Derek's eyes follow, he reaches out, pulls open the drawer.

Moments later, there's cool, slick, thick pressure, and Derek is pushing against him.

So slow it draws a low, guttural moan from Stiles, Derek pushes in until he's as far inside as he can get. As if it's not enough, he rocks in further, and it's all so slow, like they have all the time in the world, and that's new, not just for Stiles, but for them. 

"You were watching me," Stiles says, his eyes on Derek's face, watching each shift of expression, each crease of Derek's brow as he pushes forward, watches it smooth out as he relaxes. 

Derek frowns, scrunches his eyes shut, rocks in, slips back. "To keep you safe." 

Stiles smiles, his mouth stretching in a way that seems unfamiliar now. "Stalker." 

Derek's head drops onto Stiles' shoulder. He pulls out this time, just a little way, and his breath shudders as he pushes back in. "That's how it felt," he breathes. "Couldn't leave you alone." 

Stiles slides a hand up Derek's spine, threads his fingers through Derek's hair. Derek's wound tight, fingers pressing bruises into Stiles' thighs, muscles taut and shaking. His breath is shallow and quick.

"It's okay," Stiles whispers, sound barely escaping as he tries to speak around the lump in his throat. He turns his head, presses his lips to Derek's temple, and then he lifts his hips, pushing back against Derek's slow thrusts.

Derek grunts, and his hips jerk to meet Stiles. He lifts his head, his eyes are wide, his lips are slightly parted, and he pulls right back, almost all the way out. "I want you, Stiles," he whispers, barely loud enough for Stiles to hear, and then he pushes all the way back in, still slow, still inch by inch.

Stiles arches up, lets out a soft whimper of sound. He clings to Derek, a hand on the back of his neck, the other wrapped around Derek's upper arm, muscles bunching and shifting beneath his fingers. "I'm right here," he gasps, then cries out as Derek thrusts again, moans into Derek's mouth when Derek kisses him, wet and clumsy as he continues to thrust deep into Stiles' body.

Stiles can't speak anymore, and Derek doesn't. His movements quicken, the bed creaks under his powerful thrusts, and Stiles ceases to be aware of anything but the weight of Derek's body above him, the push and pull inside him, and the mounting tension in his own body.

As if Derek knows—and he probably does—he slips a hand between them, wraps his fingers around Stiles' dick, strokes in time with his thrusts. It only takes two before Stiles is coming, spine fusing, shocks of heat pulsing through his body, a wordless cry bubbling up out of him as the space between them becomes slick. 

Derek stills his hips, brings his hand to his mouth, sucks two wet fingers, closes his eyes and sighs.

Stiles has never seen anything more beautiful in his life. "You're gonna smell like me," he gasps, sucking air between each word. "Now, make me smell like you."

When Derek kisses him, Stiles can taste his own come. "You already do," Derek gasps. Then he stiffens, grimaces, and Stiles can feel it inside, a hot pulse as Derek fills him up.

There's only silence except for their breathing.

Derek is still inside Stiles when he lifts his head, opens his eyes. There's a tiny crease between his brows as he looks down, as if he wants to ask something, but cannot find the words.

"I'm fine," Stiles says. "Headache almost gone—I guess it's true what they say about that—everything else still intact. I'm good."

Derek smiles and shakes his head. "Do you want them to know?" He glances toward the window and frowns again. "Because Scott's outside your house."

Stiles' eyes go wide and he jerks. "Oh, my god." He shoves at Derek's shoulder. "Give us a minute," he calls, loud enough for a werewolf outside his window to hear. "Or, like, half an hour. To shower." He wriggles out from beneath Derek and tries to yank the sheets out from under him. "And change the sheets."

Derek grins up at him. "He's already gone," he says. "Werewolf noses are very sensitive."

"Oh my god." Stiles collapses back onto the bed. "Is he freaking out?"

"A little. But he'll be fine. He says he'll be back in the morning." Derek swings his legs over the edge of the bed, stands, and pulls Stiles to his feet.

"Will you be here?" Stiles asks, and his heart beats hard in his chest as he waits for the answer.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me to go," Derek says.


	7. Epilogue

Stiles hasn't had a cigarette in three weeks.

It's not like he was ever a regular smoker. Five or ten a night, once or twice a week for a few months isn't much of a habit, but he still felt a sort of pride over kicking it. 

Until now.

Now Stiles realizes he has triggers. Leaning against a brick wall in the dark, waiting, that's one of them. He fists the side seams of his jeans to fight it and takes deep, slow breaths of the warm night air. Inhale. Exhale. 

He sighs. "Come on, man."

It's another five minutes before he hears footsteps, sees the shadow of a man approaching, cast by the lights out on the street. His heart starts to beat faster, harder, because there's always the chance this isn't going to work out how he planned. 

Two days ago, Derek put Jackson in the hospital. Turns out, if they get bitten badly enough by an Alpha, even a werewolf can need a blood transfusion. All Jackson wanted to do was go on vacation for a week with his parents, and he winds up torn and bleeding out on the dusty floor of Derek's house. 

Scott's mom covers up the evidence that Jackson's blood isn't quite what it should be.

And Stiles finds himself craving a cigarette as the dark shape of a man appears at the mouth of an alley, late at night. 

He draws air deep into his lungs, lets it out slow, trying to ease his heart rate. The last thing he needs right now is to show fear. That would be sure to make the werewolf watching turn around and walk away. 

Stiles stares back, fists tapping his thighs nervously.

Apparently, he isn't comfortable with 'degrading' Stiles, no matter how many times Stiles insists that it's a huge turn-on to be bossed around, told what to do—or forcibly held down and fucked. He's thought a lot about what he used to do in an alley not unlike this one, and he knows that was a huge part of it, a part he liked, especially when he was doing it with Derek.

He told Derek over and over, as Derek got more and more tense, that he had to do it to Stiles, or go out and pay someone else. 

Then Jackson told him he was leaving, and Derek lost it. 

Stiles sighs, lowers his eyes, and drops to his knees. "Please," he whispers. "You need this."

There's the sound of a footstep. Just one. Long seconds later, another. Eventually, Derek stands before him, and Stiles can only see him from the waist down. He can still see the tension in him. 

And he can see that Derek is hard. 

"Why are you here?"

Stiles fights the urge to look up. He's not afraid of Derek. Derek's an idiot, yeah, he acts without thinking and uses claws instead of brains to solve his problems, but Stiles has no reason to fear him. He's not a beta, he's not subject to those of Derek's instincts that demand obedience. Still, he keeps his eyes down, his head low. "For you." He keeps his voice soft, no more than the same whisper he used to call him. 

Derek starts to circle, slow, one step at a time. "Why?" he asks, just a hint of growl in it. 

"You need me."

" _Why_?"

"Because I'm yours, because I belong to you," Stiles says, the words coming out in a single breath, one hand reaching out because he needs to touch. 

Derek steps back, out of his reach, crouches down. Stiles quickly lowers his eyes, lowers his head.

"What makes you think you know what's best for me?"

Stiles makes a mental note to tell Derek later that it's because Stiles is smarter than he is. "I love you," he says simply, for now, and it seems to work, because some of Derek's tension drains away. 

"What am I gonna do to you?" Derek asks, and now, for the first time tonight, his voice is soft and gentle. 

"Anything," Stiles replies, in as evenly matched a tone as he can manage. "Anything you want."

Derek exhales and rises to his feet. "Okay," he says, then circles back around behind Stiles.

And there he stands, perfectly still, perfectly silent, for what seems like a very long time.

Stiles' knees are getting sore, and the urge to move, to twitch, to leap up and expend some energy, is almost too strong to resist. His fingernails cut into his palms as his hands begin to shake.

Then there's a touch on his back. Stiles gasps. It's been so long that it shocks him. The tips of two fingers press in between his shoulder blades. The slightest pressure, pushing him forward. He goes with it, bending at the waist, sighing with the relief of movement.

"Put your hands on the ground," Derek says, taking back his hand.

Stiles puts his hands out. The pavement is damp, almost muddy with dust turned to grime. It soaked through the knees of his jeans long ago, but it's not like he's never been on his knees in a place like this before. All fours is something different, something new, and he starts to get hard as he both looks forward to, and dreads, Derek fucking him like this.

There's always the possibility of being caught. You need to be able to get your pants up and running in the blink of an eye, if necessary. He was lucky, he never had to do it, but he was always wary, and that caution comes back to him now.

Derek's going to know if anyone is near. Stiles trusts that, and pushes down the anxiety, breathing carefully in and out to slow his heartbeat.

"Good," Derek says. "That's good, Stiles. Now undo your pants."

This doesn't surprise Stiles at all, and he uses one hand to pop the button and draw down the zipper of his jeans. He's about to tug them down over his ass, when Derek stops him.

"That's enough," Derek says, and then crouches down beside Stiles. "Look at me."

Stiles looks, turning his head very slightly to the side, keeping his face lowered, so that he only sees Derek from out of the corner of his eyes. It hurts, aches, makes him want to blink, and he does, but keeps his eyes on Derek's face.

Derek opens his mouth, breathes hard, chest rising and falling. "Oh, that's good," he whispers. "That's so good, Stiles."

Stiles sighs and lets his eyes close. He hangs his head, listens to the way Derek is breathing, meters his own to match. His cock is hard, straining against and leaking wetness onto the fabric of his underwear. More than anything, he wants Derek inside him, he thinks he could come like that, untouched, and he wants to come.

He's more than willing to wait, though. This is for Derek, he reminds himself, and then again opens his eyes, straining to see Derek's face from this difficult angle.

Derek lets out a soft grunt and rocks on the balls of his feet. "Touch yourself," he says, the words tumbling out fast, like he's been holding onto them and can't any longer. "Touch your dick, Stiles. I wanna see."

Stiles drops his eyes back to the pavement as he fumbles with the waistband of his underwear, shoving it down, pulling out his cock, wrapping his hand around it. Without thinking, he lets out a moan of relief, but cuts it short, swallowing it even as his fingers tighten and his hips move involuntarily.

"No," Derek says, speaking just as fast as he did before. "Let it out, let me hear it."

"Oh, god," Stiles moans, and he's sure that jerking off has never felt this good before. He's barely even moved his hand and he feels pressure mounting in his spine. "I can't... I'm not gonna be able to—"

"Don't try," Derek says, his voice smooth, even, but breathy, and Stiles can hear the urgency in it. "Do it slow, Stiles, but I wanna see you come. Don't try to hold on."

Stiles strokes himself a couple of times, spreading precome down his length. His balls are tight, aching with need, and it's all going to be over in a matter of minutes. Maybe Derek plans to fuck him after, maybe it'll be like the first time he did it, maybe he'll shove his cock in the moment Stiles starts to come, he likes feeling Stiles tighten around him, maybe— "Fuck," Stiles gasps, "I'm gonna— Now. I'm coming now, you have to—"

"I don't have to do anything," Derek says, the words clipped, his breathing harsh and labored. His hand comes down on the back of Stiles' neck, fingertips digging in firmly, but painlessly, and he draws Stiles' head up.

Stiles blinks at the opening of the alley, a lit square of street. He flicks his eyes back, just his eyes, but all he can see is Derek's blurry edge. His thumb drags over the head of his cock, he pulls his hand down to the base, grips it hard, lets out a soft moan that vibrates in his chest, not much more than a sigh.

The first spasm rips through him with a violence completely at odds with the calm that preceded it. Stiles cries out in shock, in ecstasy, the arm holding him up buckles, but he doesn't hit the ground. Pleasure pulses through him in waves, rippling out from his core and leaving him soft, limp, exhausted and slick with cooling sweat.

Derek's arm is around his chest, across his shoulders. He'd be face first in the dust if it wasn't for that, Stiles knows. He lets his head roll to the side as Derek lifts him to his knees, gets his hands locked around Stiles' upper arms, holds him there.

"Fuck," Stiles says on an exhale as he catches his breath. Then he opens his eyes.

"I love you," Derek says. His expression is... Amazement, like he can't believe what he's seeing. It fits, Stiles decides, because he's never said that before, even though Stiles says it almost every day.

Stiles grins, the smile slowly spreading across his face as he closes his eyes and presses himself close to Derek's chest. "I know," he says, because he has for a while now. He reaches for Derek's belt, rubs the heel of his hand over the front of Derek's jeans as he fumbles with it. "Your turn."

"No, we're going home," Derek says, pulling Stiles' hand away and lifting them both to their feet.

They get as far as the mouth of the alley before they stop, Stiles pressed against the wall, arms around Derek's neck. Derek's tongue is still in Stiles' mouth, even as the sound of a car on the street gets louder.

And then it brakes.

"Shit," Derek says as he pulls away, taking two quick steps back to put distance between them. "It's—"

Someone clears their throat.

"No," Stiles whines, and he can't bear to look, but he's got no choice. He opens his eyes, pushes away from the wall, leans against the corner, trying to look nonchalant, and fails miserably as he slips on the edge and stumbles. "Hey, Dad," he grimaces as the Sheriff winds down the passenger window and leans across the seat to peer out. 

The Sheriff's eyes slide from Stiles, to Derek, and back again. "What are you two doing out here? It's late." He looks Stiles up and down. "And what the hell is going on with your pants, Stiles? Your knees are all dirty—" The Sheriff's face goes blank, then his eyes go very wide. "Oh." He puts his hand over his eyes. "Oh my god. I don't even— Don't answer that, I don't want to know." He drops his hand, cranes his neck to glare at Derek. "Don't you have a perfectly good car you could..." He looks back at Stiles. "This is because of the open bedroom door policy, isn't it? Jesus, Derek. Will you please get my underage son off the streets before you get him arrested for public indecency?"

Derek's face is pale, he looks absolutely horrified. "Yes, sir," he nods, then taking two long strides, grabs Stiles by the sleeve and tugs him away from the car.

The last thing Stiles sees is the back of his father's head shaking from side to side. "Oh my god," he says. "I've never been more embarrassed in my entire life." 

"How do you think I feel?" Derek mutters. 

Stiles wraps his arm around Derek's waist and matches his stride to his boyfriend's. "There's an upside to this. Dad basically just told you to take me home and finish the job, you know." 

Derek stops in his tracks. He looks at Stiles, lifts an eyebrow as he considers it. Then he half-shrugs, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done! Thank you for reading, extra thanks to those who've been here from the beginning and got dragged along when I moved the story over to this account. If you've enjoyed it, please leave kudos :D?
> 
> I'm totally high on end-of-story-endorphins right now *bounces off into the sunset*

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading, please hit the [Kudos ♥] button.
> 
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